Bloodhound x Female Reader - もり

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And so you wait. On another pelt, this one covered a soft pillow that you sat atop. Beside you, another pillow, except this one is empty. It's for them. In front of you, a massive bonfire roared. It would go all day and into the night.

Your elder sits in front of you with bowls of paint. Blue, red, teal, white. She dots your face with the different colors while quietly chanting to herself. Your eyes remain down at your hands clasped in your lap. The sun is now up and warming your back in an uncomfortable way. But you're not permitted to leave. No, because sometimes wives would try to run away. And your position was much too valuable to have you run off. Several eyes were on you at every moment.

The freshly built, two-story hut that you would soon share with your spouse was getting the finishing touches. Paint was being marked on the doorway and outside walls, furniture brought in, and gifts laid outside. All tradition. All for a reason. Even though it would soon be your house, you had no opinion or say on anything. You'd never even been inside. Once again, your mind ran off.

The two of you are running through the trees, sticks imagined as swords. You imagine you're fighting a war like in the storybooks and elders tell of. Artur cooks fish over a fire and watches the two of you, telling more stories. You bathe in the river at dusk, both naked. No shame. You splash one another and laugh with no second thoughts. Thus is the innocence of our youth.

Now you're teenagers. Bathing in the river and being alone for too long is suspicious. It's forbidden. Yet you two have snuck out so late that even the men standing guard outside the village have fallen asleep.

You both hold your breath as you carefully walk by them and into the tree line. Alone. You go to the flat rock that overlooks the river where you played as children. They have somehow managed to procure a small bottle of the honey alcohol Artur enjoys. You both take turns sipping it's harsh contents— gagging, laughing, each time.

Their hand finds your leg, fingertips grazing up to your inner thigh. The alcohol wasn't enough to do this, no, this is their own will. You look up and lock eyes. Painfully slowly, the two of you lean in and kiss. Awkward as can be. Finally you get into a rhythm and it deepens. Your breaths become hot. Hearts are racing. Their curious hands now snake up your waist. Thus is the passion of our ungdomsårene.

A man's throat clears behind you. Artur. He is leaning against a tree as his crow flies down to land on his shoulder. He says nothing but you know. You get up and run home, leaving the two of them there. Unaware of what they may discuss.

Artur keeps your secret. The next day, Bloodhound is given their new name. Their warrior name. This is their name now. The whole feast, the two of you steal glances and grins. Their newly chiseled teeth an homage.

You go to congratulate them personally. Artur allows the two of you a few moments of privacy, but only enough time for more awkward kisses. You leave one another, sad, but excited for the future.

The next day Artur is killed by the raging prowler. Everything is changed forever. The shadow that an innocent childhood cast upon the two of you is gone. Shattered. No more. Bloodhound leaves the next day. They show no emotion towards you in their goodbye. So you show none back.

"They're arriving! They're back!"

You're slammed back to reality, head snapping behind you. You squint at the tree line to see four figures walking towards the village. The smaller frame clearly them. They each carry an animal, but they have none. They brought only themselves.

A few women run forward to greet their husbands, their children lagging behind with their tiny legs. You turn back around and resume the staring contest with your lap. Your eldri is gone and so are the paint bowls. You feel the paint begin to dry and crust.

You drown out their banter and focus on yourself. You wish this could all just be done. For the gifts to be exchanged, songs sang, food ate, stories told— and to go "home." To begin a new normal. But tradition called.

Shuffling beside you. They take their place, sitting on their knees, hands in their lap. They now wear a full mask and goggles along with the respirator. Dangling charms chime in the breeze as they keep their gaze forward. They're older now, you both are. But it feels as if you've never met this person in your life.

You realize you had turned your head completely. Then they do. Your "eyes" meet, at least you think they do. Their goggle lenses are nearly black and you see no human eyes. In an instant you snap your gaze back down, fists balling up tightly in embarrassment. You hear their helmet charms chime and look forward again.

Food and drink are brought and placed in front of Bloodhound. Too many to count. They take no interest in it. Of course, you can't eat. Not yet. The villagers take turns kissing at their hands and thanking them for "saving" the village. It takes all your strength not to say anything about your parents and family— slaughtered because of their desire to participate in some game.

The traditions of the old are displayed. Song after dance after ritual. Exchange of rings. Stories. Food. Drinking. Laughter. You and Bloodhound drink cupfuls of the special alcohol. You start to feel sleepy. The sun set long ago. The bonfire roars still. You finally present your gift to them. You hold out the white box with two hands, head slightly bowed in submission. They take it and open it.

"Þakka þér fyrir"

They put it on by themselves and it hangs loosely around their neck along with the other straps, bags, feathers, and pelts. The celebration continues for several more hours.

The children had long since been put to bed. Only a few of the men hung around, drinking and sharing stories. Finally your eldri, who had taken care of you the past two years, grants permission for the two of you to go. To go "home."

You don't worry about cleaning up. Finally you rise, legs shaking and sore from sitting so long. The two of you head down the dark dirt path towards a warmly lit, massive hut. Silence besides your footsteps. You're a married woman.